Dead Men's Money

"Easy enough," declared Chisholm. "As I said just now, there's numbers of strangers comes about Tweedside at this time of the year, and who'd think anything of seeing them? What was easier than for these two to separate, to keep close during the rest of the night, and to get away by train from some wayside station or other next morning? They could manage it easily—and we're making inquiries at all the stations in the district on both sides the Tweed, with that idea."

"Well—you'll have a lot of people to follow up, then," remarked Mr.

Lindsey drily. "If you're going to follow every tourist that got on a train next morning between Berwick and Wooler, and Berwick and Kelso, and Berwick and Burnmouth, and Berwick and Blyth, you'll have your work set, I'm thinking!"

"All the same," said Chisholm doggedly, "that's how it's been. And the bank at Peebles has the numbers of the notes that Phillips carried off in his little bag—and I'll trace those fellows yet, Mr. Lindsey."

"Good luck to you, sergeant!" answered Mr. Lindsey. He turned to me when Chisholm had gone. "That's the police all over, Hugh," he remarked. "And you might talk till you were black in the face to yon man, and he'd stick to his story."

"You don't believe it, then?" I asked him, somewhat surprised.

"He may be right," he replied. "I'm not saying. Let him attend to his business—and now we'll be seeing to ours."

It was a busy day with us in the office that, being the day before court day, and we had no time to talk of anything but our own affairs. But during the afternoon, at a time when I had left the office for an hour or two on business, Sir Gilbert Carstairs called, and he was closeted with Mr. Lindsey when I returned. And after they had been together some time Mr. Lindsey came out to me and beckoned me into a little waiting-room that we had and shut the door on us, and I saw at once from the expression on his face that he had no idea that Sir Gilbert and I had met the night before, or that I had any notion of what he was going to say to me.

"Hugh, my lad!" said he, clapping me on the shoulder; "you're evidently one of those that are born lucky. What's the old saying—'Some achieve greatness, some have greatness thrust upon them!'—eh? Here's greatness—in a degree—thrusting itself on you!"

"What's this you're talking about, Mr. Lindsey?" I asked. "There's not much greatness about me, I'm thinking!"

"Well, it's not what you're thinking in this case," he answered; "it's what other folks are thinking of you. Here's Sir Gilbert Carstairs in my room yonder. He's wanting a steward—somebody that can keep accounts, and letters, and look after the estate, and he's been looking round for a likely man, and he's heard that Lindsey's clerk, Hugh Moneylaws, is just the sort he wants—and, in short, the job's yours, if you like to take it. And, my lad, it's worth five hundred a year—and a permanency, too! A fine chance for a young fellow of your age!"

"Do you advise me to take it, Mr. Lindsey?" I asked, endeavouring to combine surprise with a proper respect for the value of his counsel. "It's a serious job that for, as you say, a young fellow."

"Not if he's got your headpiece on him," he replied, giving me another clap on the shoulder. "I do advise you to take it. I've given you the strongest recommendations to him. Go into my office now and talk it over with Sir Gilbert by yourself. But when it comes to settling details, call me in—I'll see you're done right to."

I thanked him warmly, and went into his room, where Sir Gilbert was sitting in an easy-chair. He motioned me to shut the door, and, once that was done, he gave a quick, inquiring look.

"You didn't let him know that you and I had talked last night?" he asked at once.

"No," said I.

"That's right—and I didn't either," he went on. "I don't want him to know I spoke to you before speaking to him—it would look as if I were trying to get his clerk away from him. Well, it's settled, then, Moneylaws? You'll take the post?"

"I shall be very glad to, Sir Gilbert," said I. "And I'll serve you to the best of my ability, if you'll have a bit of patience with me at the beginning. There'll be some difference between my present job and this you're giving me, but I'm a quick learner, and—"

"Oh, that's all right, man!" he interrupted carelessly. "You'll do all that I want. I hate accounts, and letter-writing, and all that sort of thing—take all that off my hands, and you'll do. Of course, whenever you're in a fix about anything, come to me—but I can explain all there is to do in an hour's talk with you at the beginning. All right!—ask Mr. Lindsey to step in to me, and we'll put the matter on a business footing."

Mr. Lindsey came in and took over the job of settling matters on my behalf. And the affair was quickly arranged. I was to stay with Mr. Lindsey another month, so as to give him the opportunity of getting a new head clerk, then I was to enter on my new duties at Hathercleugh. I was to have five hundred pounds a year salary, with six months' notice on either side; at the end of five years, if I was still in the situation, the terms were to be revised with a view to an increase—and all this was to be duly set down in black and white. These propositions, of course, were Mr. Lindsey's, and Sir Gilbert assented to all of them readily and promptly. He appeared to be the sort of man who is inclined to accept anything put before him rather than have a lot of talk about it. And presently, remarking that that was all right, and he'd leave Mr. Lindsey to see to it, he rose to go, but at the door paused and came back.

"I'm thinking of dropping in at the police-station and telling Murray my ideas about that Crone affair," he remarked. "It's my opinion, Mr. Lindsey, that there's salmon-poaching going on hereabouts, and if my land adjoined either Tweed or Till I'd have spoken about it before. There are queer characters about along both rivers at nights—I know, because I go out a good deal, very late, walking, to try and cure myself of insomnia; and I know what I've seen. It's my impression that Crone was probably mixed up with some gang, and that his death arose out of an affray between them."

"That's probable," answered Mr. Lindsey. "There was trouble of that sort some years ago, but I haven't heard of it lately. Certainly, it would be a good thing to start the idea in Murray's mind; he might follow it up and find something out."

"That other business—the Phillips murder—might have sprung out of the same cause," suggested Sir Gilbert. "If those chaps caught a stranger in a lonely place—"

"The police have a theory already about Phillips," remarked Mr. Lindsey. "They think he was followed from Peebles, and murdered for the sake of money that he was carrying in a bag he had with him. And my experience," he added with a laugh, "is that if the police once get a theory of their own, it's no use suggesting any other to them—they'll ride theirs, either till it drops or they get home with it."

Sir Gilbert nodded his head, as if he agreed with that, and he suddenly gave Mr. Lindsey an inquiring look.

"What's your own opinion?" he asked.

But Mr. Lindsey was not to be drawn. He laughed and shrugged his shoulders, as if to indicate that the affair was none of his.

"I wouldn't say that I have an opinion, Sir Gilbert," he answered. "It's much too soon to form one, and I haven't the details, and I'm not a detective. But all these matters are very simple—when you get to the bottom of them. The police think this is going to be a very simple affair—mere vulgar murder for the sake of mere vulgar robbery. We shall see!"

Then Sir Gilbert went away, and Mr. Lindsey looked at me, who stood a little apart, and he saw that I was thinking.

"Well, my lad," he said; "a bit dazed by your new opening? It's a fine chance for you, too! Now, I suppose, you'll be wanting to get married. Is it that you're thinking about?"

"Well, I was not, Mr. Lindsey," said I. "I was just wondering—if you must know—how it was that, as he was here, you didn't tell Sir Gilbert about that signature of his brother's that you found on Gilverthwaite's will."

He shared a sharp look between me and the door—but the door was safely shut.

"No!" he said. "Neither to him nor to anybody, yet a while! And don't you mention that, my lad. Keep it dark till I give the word. I'll find out about that in my own way. You understand—on that point, absolute silence."

I replied that, of course, I would not say a word; and presently I went into the office to resume my duties. But I had not been long at that before the door opened, and Chisholm put his face within and looked at me.

"I'm wanting you, Mr. Moneylaws," he said. "You said you were with Crone, buying something, that night before his body was found. You'd be paying him money—and he might be giving you change. Did you happen to see his purse, now?"

"Aye!" answered I. "What for do you ask that?"

"Because," said he, "we've taken a fellow at one of those riverside publics that's been drinking heavily, and, of course, spending money freely. And he has a queer-looking purse on him, and one or two men that's seen it vows and declares it was Abel Crone's."

CHAPTER XVI

THE MAN IN THE CELL

Before I could reply to Chisholm's inquiry, Mr. Lindsey put his head out of his door and seeing the police-sergeant there asked what he was after. And when Chisholm had repeated his inquiry, both looked at me.

"I did see Crone's purse that night," I answered, "an old thing that he kept tied up with a boot-lace. And he'd a lot of money in it, too."

"Come round, then, and see if you can identify this that we found on the man," requested Chisholm. "And," he added, turning to Mr. Lindsey, "there's another thing. The man's sober enough, now that we've got him—it's given him a bit of a pull-together, being arrested. And he's demanding a lawyer. Perhaps you'll come to him, Mr. Lindsey."

"Who is he?" asked Mr. Lindsey. "A Berwick man?"

"He isn't," replied Chisholm. "He's a stranger—a fellow that says he was seeking work, and had been stopping at a common lodging-house in the town. He vows and declares that he'd nothing to do with killing Crone, and he's shouting for a lawyer."

Mr. Lindsey put on his hat, and he and I went off with Chisholm to the police-station. And as we got in sight of it, we became aware that there was a fine to-do in the street before its door. The news of the arrest had spread quickly, and folk had come running to get more particulars. And amongst the women and children and loafers that were crowding around was Crone's housekeeper, a great, heavy, rough-haired Irishwoman called Nance Maguire, and she was waving her big arms and shaking her fists at a couple of policemen, whom she was adjuring to bring out the murderer, so that she might do justice on him then and there—all this being mingled with encomiums on the victim.

"The best man that ever lived!" she was screaming at the top of her voice. "The best and kindest creature ever set foot in your murdering town! And didn't I know he was to be done to death by some of ye? Didn't he tell me himself that there was one would give his two eyes to be seeing his corpse? And if ye've laid hands on him that did it, bring him out to me, so, and I'll—"

Mr. Lindsey laid a quiet hand on the woman's arm and twisted her round in the direction of her cottage.

"Hold your wisht, good wife, and go home!" he whispered to her. "And if you know anything, keep your tongue still till I come to see you. Be away, now, and leave it to me."

I don't know how it was, but Nance Maguire, after a sharp look at Mr. Lindsey, turned away as meekly as a lamb, and went off, tearful enough, but quiet, down the street, followed by half the rabble, while Mr. Lindsey, Chisholm, and myself turned into the police-station. And there we met Mr. Murray, who wagged his head at us as if he were very well satisfied with something.

"Not much doubt about this last affair, anyhow," said he, as he took us into his office. "You might say the man was caught red-handed! All the same, Mr. Lindsey, he's in his rights to ask for a lawyer, and you can see him whenever you like."

"What are the facts?" asked Mr. Lindsey. "Let me know that much first."

Mr. Murray jerked his thumb at Chisholm.

"The sergeant there knows them," he answered. "He took the man."

"It was this way, d'ye see, Mr. Lindsey," said Chisholm, who was becoming an adept at putting statements before people. "You know that bit of a public there is along the river yonder, outside the wall—the Cod and Lobster? Well, James Macfarlane, that keeps it, he came to me, maybe an hour or so ago, and said there was a fellow, a stranger, had been in and out there all day since morning, drinking; and though he wouldn't say the man was what you'd rightly call drunk, still he'd had a skinful, and he was in there again, and they wouldn't serve him, and he was getting quarrelsome and abusive, and in the middle of it had pulled out a purse that another man who was in there vowed and declared, aside, to Macfarlane, was Abel Crone's. So I got a couple of constables and went back with Macfarlane, and there was the man vowing he'd be served, and with a handful of money to prove that he could pay for whatever he called for. And as he began to turn ugly, and show fight, we just clapped the bracelets on him and brought him along, and there he is in the cells—and, of course, it's sobered him down, and he's demanding his rights to see a lawyer."

"Who is he?" asked Mr. Lindsey.

"A stranger to the town," replied Chisholm. "And he'll neither give name nor address but to a lawyer, he declares. But we know he was staying at one of the common lodging-houses—Watson's—three nights ago, and that the last two nights he wasn't in there at all."

"Well—where's that purse?" demanded Mr. Lindsey. "Mr. Moneylaws here says he can identify it, if it's Crone's."

Chisholm opened a drawer and took out what I at once knew to be Abel Crone's purse—which was in reality a sort of old pocket-book or wallet, of some sort of skin, with a good deal of the original hair left on it, and tied about with a bit of old bootlace. There were both gold and silver in it—just as I had seen when Crone pulled it out to find me some change for a five-shilling piece I had given him—and more by token, there was the five-shilling piece itself!

"That's Crone's purse!" I exclaimed. "I've no doubt about that. And that's a crown piece I gave him myself; I've no doubt about that either!"

"Let us see the man," said Mr. Lindsey.

Chisholm led us down a corridor to the cells, and unlocked a door. He stepped within the cell behind it, motioning us to follow. And there, on the one stool which the place contained, sat a big, hulking fellow that looked like a navvy, whose rough clothes bore evidence of his having slept out in them, and whose boots were stained with the mud and clay which they would be likely to collect along the riverside. He was sitting nursing his head in his hands, growling to himself, and he looked up at us as I have seen wild beasts look out through the bars of cages. And somehow, there was that in the man's eyes which made me think, there and then, that he was not reflecting on any murder that he had done, but was sullenly and stupidly angry with himself.

"Now, then, here's a lawyer for you," said Chisholm. "Mr. Lindsey, solicitor."

"Well, my man!" began Mr. Lindsey, taking a careful look at this queer client. "What have you got to say to me?"

The prisoner gave Chisholm a disapproving look.

"Not going to say a word before the likes of him!" he growled. "I know my rights, guv'nor! What I say, I'll say private to you."

"Better leave us, sergeant," said Mr. Lindsey. He waited till Chisholm, a bit unwilling, had left the cell and closed the door, and then he turned to the man. "Now, then," he continued, "you know what they charge you with? You've been drinking hard—are you sober enough to talk sense? Very well, then—what's this you want me for?"

"To defend me, of course!" growled the prisoner. He twisted a hand round to the back of his trousers as if to find something. "I've money of my own—a bit put away in a belt," he said; "I'll pay you."

"Never mind that now," answered Mr. Lindsey. "Who are you?—and what do you want to say?"

"Name of John Carter," replied the man. "General labourer—navvy work—anything of that sort. On tramp—seeking a job. Came here, going north, night before last. And—no more to do with the murder of yon man than you have!"

"They found his purse on you, anyway," remarked Mr. Lindsey bluntly.

"What have you got to say to that?"

"What I say is that I'm a damned fool!" answered Carter surlily. "It's all against me, I know, but I'll tell you—you can tell lawyers anything. Who's that young fellow?" he demanded suddenly, glaring at me. "I'm not going to talk before no detectives."

"My clerk," replied Mr. Lindsey. "Now, then—tell your tale. And just remember what a dangerous position you're in."

"Know that as well as you do," muttered the prisoner. "But I'm sober enough, now! It's this way—I stopped here in the town three nights since, and looked about for a job next day, and then I heard of something likely up the river and went after it and didn't get it, so I started back here—late at night it was. And after crossing that bridge at a place called Twizel, I turned down to the river-bank, thinking to take a short cut. And—it was well after dark, then, mind you, guv'nor—in coming along through the woods, just before where the little river runs into the big one, I come across this man's body—stumbled on it. That's the truth!"

"Well!" said Mr. Lindsey.

"He was lying—I could show you the place, easy—between the edge of the wood and the river-bank," continued Carter. "And though he was dead enough when I found him, guv'nor, he hadn't been dead so long. But dead he was—and not from aught of my doing."

"What time was this?" asked Mr. Lindsey.

"It would be past eleven o'clock," replied Carter. "It was ten when I called by Cornhill station. I went the way I did—down through the woods to the river-bank—because I'd noticed a hut there in the morning that I could sleep in—I was making for that when I found the body."

"Well—about the purse?" demanded Mr. Lindsey shortly. "No lies, now!"

The prisoner shook his head at that, and growled—but it was evident he was growling at himself.

"That's right enough," he confessed. "I felt in his pockets, and I did take the purse. But—I didn't put him in the water. True as I'm here, guv'nor. I did no more than take the purse! I left him there—just as he was—and the next day I got drinking, and last night I stopped in that hut again, and today I was drinking, pretty heavy—and I sort of lost my head and pulled the purse out, and—that's the truth, anyway, whether you believe it or not. But I didn't kill yon man, though I'll admit I robbed his body—like the fool I am!"

"Well, you see where it's landed you," remarked Mr. Lindsey. "All right—hold your tongue now, and I'll see what I can do. I'll appear for you when you come before the magistrate tomorrow."

He tapped at the door of the cell, and Chisholm, who had evidently waited in the corridor, let us out. Mr. Lindsey said nothing to him, nor to the superintendent—he led me away into the street. And there he clapped me on the arm.

"I believe every word that man said!" he murmured. "Come on, now—we'll see this Nance Maguire."

CHAPTER XVII

THE IRISH HOUSEKEEPER

I was a good deal surprised that Mr. Lindsey should be—apparently—so anxious to interview Crone's housekeeper, and I said as much. He turned on me sharply, with a knowing look.

"Didn't you hear what the woman was saying when we came across her there outside the police-station?" he exclaimed. "She was saying that Crone had said to her that there was some man who would give his two eyes to be seeing his corpse! Crone's been telling her something. And I'm so convinced that that man in the cells yonder has told us the truth, as regards himself, that I'm going to find out what Crone did tell her. Who is there—who could there be that wanted to see Crone's dead body? Let's try to find that out."

I made no answer—but I was beginning to think; and to wonder, too, in a vague, not very pleasant fashion. Was this—was Crone's death, murder, whatever it was—at all connected with the previous affair of Phillips? Had Crone told me the truth that night I went to buy the stuff for Tom Dunlop's rabbit-hutches? or had he kept something back? And while I was reflecting on these points, Mr. Lindsey began talking again.

"I watched that man closely when he was giving me his account of what happened," he said, "and, as I said just now, I believe he told us the truth. Whoever it was that did Crone to death, he's not in that cell, Hugh, my lad; and, unless I'm much mistaken, all this is of a piece with Phillips's murder. But let's hear what this Irishwoman has to say."

Crone's cottage was a mean, miserable shanty sort of place down a narrow alley in a poor part of the town. When we reached its door there was a group of women and children round it, all agog with excitement. But the door itself was closed, and it was not opened to us until Nance Maguire's face had appeared at the bit of a window, and Nance had assured herself of the identity of her visitors. And when she had let us in, she shut the door once more and slipped a bolt into its socket.

"I an't said a word, your honour," said she, "since your honour told me not to, though them outside is sharp on me to tell 'em this and that. And I wouldn't have said what I did up yonder had I known your honour would be for supporting me. I was feeling there wasn't a soul in the place would see justice done for him that's gone—the poor, good man!"

"If you want justice, my good woman," remarked Mr. Lindsey, "keep your tongue quiet, and don't talk to your neighbours, nor to the police—just keep anything you know till I tell you to let it out. Now, then, what's this you were saying?—that Crone told you there was a man in the place would give his two eyes to see him a corpse?"

"Them very words, your honour; and not once nor twice, but a good many times did he say it," replied the woman. "It was a sort of hint he was giving me, your honour—he had that way of speaking."

"Since when did he give you such hints?" asked Mr. Lindsey. "Was it only lately?"

"It was since that other bloody murder, your honour," said Nance Maguire. "Only since then. He would talk of it as we sat over the fire there at nights. 'There's murder in the air,' says he. 'Bloody murder is all around us!' he says. 'And it's myself will have to pick my steps careful,' he says, 'for there's him about would give his two eyes to see me a stark and staring corpse,' he says. 'Me knowing,' he says, 'more than you'd give me credit for,' says he. And not another word than them could I get out of him, your honour."

"He never told you who the man was that he had his fears of?" inquired Mr. Lindsey.

"He did not, then, your honour," replied Nance. "He was a close man, and you wouldn't be getting more out of him than he liked to tell."

"Now, then, just tell me the truth about a thing or two," said Mr.

Lindsey. "Crone used to be out at nights now and then, didn't he?"

"Indeed, then, he did so, your honour," she answered readily. "'Tis true, he would be out at nights, now and again."

"Poaching, as a matter of fact," suggested Mr. Lindsey.

"And that's the truth, your honour," she assented. "He was a clever hand with the rabbits."

"Aye; but did he never bring home a salmon, now?" asked Mr. Lindsey.

"Come, out with it."

"I'll not deny that, neither, your honour," admitted the woman. "He was clever at that too."

"Well, now, about that night when he was supposed to be killed," continued Mr. Lindsey; "that's Tuesday last—this being Thursday. Did he ever come home that evening from his shop?"

I had been listening silently all this time, and I listened with redoubled attention for the woman's answer to the last question. It was on the Tuesday evening, about nine o'clock, that I had had my talk with Crone, and I was anxious to know what happened after that. And Nance Maguire replied readily enough—it was evident her memory was clear on these events.

"He did not, then," she said. "He was in here having his tea at six o'clock that evening, and he went away to the shop when he'd had it, and I never put my eyes on him again, alive, your honour. He was never home that night, and he didn't come to his breakfast next morning, and he wasn't at the shop—and I never heard this or that of him till they come and tell me the bad news."